


Quiet Minds

by accidentallyonpurpose



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Body Worship, Dom/sub, M/M, Safe Sane and Consensual, Safewords, but just for assurance, no safe word usage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 12:46:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3769093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/accidentallyonpurpose/pseuds/accidentallyonpurpose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock needs help calming his mind. John catches him just in time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quiet Minds

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing anything like this. Please enjoy, and leave kudos and comments at your leisure!

Words, spilling in and frothing around like a turbulent sea, unstoppable and breaking down any semblance of sanity. Sherlock was a jittery mess, unable to stop his thoughts. Images, deductions, memories, all swirling around and clawing at the inside of Sherlock’s head, not letting him rest or think. It had been a week since the last case, and Sherlock was rotting from the inside out. John had left half an hour ago and in that time, Sherlock had deduced every passerby on the street, checked the blog seventeen times for a new case, picked up and put down the violin and finally shot the wall in an attempt to drown out the noise inside his head, all to no avail.   
This is why, when John entered the room laden with bags of groceries, he was greeted by a haphazardly dressed Sherlock standing on top of the coffee table, a gun in his hand pointed at the adjacent wall.   
“I’m going to give you ten seconds to explain,” John greeted in a voice that was carefully calm.   
“Explain what, John?” Sherlock shouted. “What will you do? What’s the point, you won’t understand anyway,” Sherlock snapped.   
“Sherlock, what’s gotten into you?”  
“The noise, John, the noise! Words, images, deductions, all in my head they won’t stop they won’t shut up, shut up, shut up!” Sherlock covered his ears, the gun still in his hand. He leaped off the table and paced around the room, climbing over furniture with ease. He scratched his head with his free hand and pointed his gun at the wall where three bullets already nestled.  
“Don’t!” John barked. “If you pull that trigger, I will make you sorry,” John warned. There was cold ice carefully buried under a layer of control. Sherlock held out his arms helplessly.  
“What am I going to do, John? There’s no way to shut it up. There’s no cases, nothing to deduce. I’ve already figured out all your secrets, for God’s sake! What do you want me to DO?” The last word came out as a roar and was followed by a growl.   
“You’re not high, are you?” John asked, his voice a quiet contrast to Sherlock’s outburst.  
“No John, I knew how disappointed you would be in me, so I didn’t even seek that solace!” Sherlock’s tone was accusing. John’s face dropped into a mask of resolute patience.   
“Alright Sherlock, you want to know what I want you to do? You’re going to go into the living room and kneel by the sofa, hands on your head. I want you to stay there like that for me while I put away the groceries. Give me the gun. Now go!” The last was a barked order.   
Sherlock’s empty hand balled into a fist at his side. “And if I don’t?” he said, eyes narrowing.   
“Are we really going to go there? Because we can go there.” Sherlock hesitated for only a moment before huffing, stomping to the sofa, dropping the gun on the coffee table for John and falling gracelessly to his knees.   
“Thank you. Now while I’m gone I want you to think about exactly how we got to this point. I don’t want to see you move until I’m finished. Clear?”  
“Yes, John.” John took the shopping to the kitchen and started unloading the four bags bundled in his hands. He meticulously put the items away, keeping a careful eye on the clock. He wanted to let Sherlock stew, but he didn’t want to leave him too long. After four minutes, he poked his head out of the kitchen door, only to see Sherlock agitatedly opening and closing his fists amidst his curls. His toes were also tapping an uneven rhythm on the floor.  
“Hey, no moving!” John ordered. Sherlock let out a frustrated groan before responding.  
“Yes, John.” His fingers and toes stilled once more, and he closed his eyes. John stuck his head back inside the kitchen and thought hard. Excluding the three new bullet holes in their wall, there wasn’t much to punish Sherlock for. Thankfully they had caught the destructive mood early and not much damage had yet been done. It was more a settling, a quieting of the mind Sherlock needed, and John reflected on how he could help achieve that. 

After another four minutes John wandered back into the living room, sitting down on the sofa and putting his hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck.   
“Good boy.” Sherlock’s shoulders were a tight line and his back was as rigid as a rod. “So, why are we here?”   
“The noise in my head, John,” Sherlock said in a much quieter voice, a sign that he was starting to go under. “I don’t know how to make it stop. Help me.” At this, Sherlock allowed his head to turn in order to see John properly. An undercurrent of desperation coloured his voice.  
“All you’ve got to do is listen to me. Focus only on my voice. Can you do that?”  
“Yes, John.”  
“Good. Now, I want you remind me of your safeword.”  
“Microscope.”  
“Right, and you know you can use it or the traffic light system, without repercussion, the minute you feel uncomfortable or unsafe, yeah?”  
“Yes, John.”  
“Great. Now I want you to put your hands on your knees and relax your shoulders.” John repositioned himself so he was framing Sherlock’s back with his knees. He put a hand on either of Sherlock’s shoulders and squeezed. “Breathe in,” Sherlock took a deep breath in, “and breathe out,” Sherlock exhaled slowly, his shoulders relaxing minutely. “And again.” On every inhale, John would squeeze Sherlock’s shoulders, releasing when Sherlock exhaled. They did this for ten more sets of deep breaths, until John told Sherlock to stop.  
“What colour are you, Sherlock?”  
“Green.”  
“Good boy. Starting to feel better?”  
“Yes, John.” The physical contact was good for Sherlock, something he could focus on. It helped him drop into a place that was no more than a calming buzz in his mind.  
“Now, I’m going to take off your shirt. Every time I undo a button, I’ll count and I want to hear a fact about buttons.” John recalled a recent case that had required an uncanny knowledge of buttons, and knew Sherlock had yet to delete the information.   
Sherlock, in his earlier frustration, had already undone half his buttons, leaving his shirt hanging partially open. John stood and circled Sherlock so that he was facing him and knelt down. Reaching forward, he undid the top button of Sherlock’s dress shirt.   
“One.”  
“The term button originates for the French ‘bouton’.” John reached for the next button, making sure his fingers grazed Sherlock’s chest as he undid it,   
“Two.”  
“King Francis I of France once wore 13, 600 golden buttons on a court outfit.”  
“Three.” Sherlock hesitated, delving deep in his mind for another fact. “Sherlock?”  
“Yes, yes, um. The British Army used 367 different kinds of buttons during World War I.”  
“Good. Two more to go, you’re doing well.” John gave Sherlock a moment. “Four.”  
“Louis XIV is said to have spent $600,000 on jeweled buttons.”  
“Five.”  
“In America, buttons were used for trading with the Indians.”  
John chuckled “If anyone knows fact about buttons, it’s you, my brilliant boy. Now I’m going to take the shirt off.” He slid the shirt off of Sherlock’s shoulders and folded it on the sofa.   
“Stand.” Sherlock rose fluidly to his feet.   
“Hands behind your back.” Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back.   
“I’m going to take your trousers off now.” He reached for the buttons on the front of Sherlock’s trousers. Slipping the buttons through the holes, John made quick work of sliding Sherlock’s trousers to his ankles. “Left foot up, please. And now the right.” John liberated the trousers from Sherlock’s ankles and folded them on top of the shirt on the sofa. “I’m going to keep your pants on. Now, you’re going to go to the bedroom and kneel beside the bed, hands clasped behind your back. Hop to!” Sherlock turned and walked quickly to the bedroom, dropping to his knees beside the bed while still keeping his hands clasped. He settled himself on his knees; John waited by the door and only approached once Sherlock ceased fidgeting.   
John settled himself on the edge of the bed beside Sherlock, running his hands over Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock watched him with half-lidded eyes, breath even and body still.   
“You’ve sunk so beautifully for me,” John murmured. He framed Sherlock’s face in his hands and ran both thumbs lightly along his lips. “So beautiful,” he repeated, earning a shiver from Sherlock. “You like that, eh?” he commented with a gentle smile. They rested for a moment more.  
“I’m going to count every freckle on your body,” John said to Sherlock. “And you’re going to help me. Every time I find one I’m going to count out loud, and you’ll repeat the number and thank me. Do you understand?”  
It took Sherlock a moment to respond. “Yes, John.”  
“First, I need you to spread your legs wider for me.” John nudged Sherlock’s knee with his toe, prompting him to slide his knee out further. Now there was a slight strain on Sherlock’s thighs. “Now don’t move.”  
John took his time running his hands over Sherlock’s body, reacquainting himself. Starting at the left shoulder, John rubbed the pads of his fingers into Sherlock’s skin before settling his pointer finger over the first freckle.   
“One.”  
“One, thank you.” John traced his index finger down and to the left.  
“Two.”  
“Two, thank you.” John’s next destination was Sherlock’s sternum.   
“Three.”  
“Three, thank you.” Sherlock’s voice had started slurring. John, deciding Sherlock was having it too easy, decided to give him more of a challenge. He gently dragged his index finger over the pale skin and landed on a freckle on Sherlock’s right shoulder.  
“Four.” Just as Sherlock was about to respond, John swept in and pressed a kiss to the freckle.   
Sherlock inhaled quietly and stuttered “F-four, thank you.” John smiled against Sherlock’s skin at the hesitation.  
“Good boy. Five,” he quickly kissed Sherlock’s right arm.  
“Five, thank you.”  
“Six,” his finger was once again followed by a chaste kiss.  
“Six, thank you.”   
“Seven.” This time, John let his tongue linger longer that strictly necessary.  
“S-seven, thank you,” Sherlock jumped in surprise at the unexpected touch.  
“No moving,” John reminded Sherlock, giving his bottom a light smack.   
“Sorry, John.”  
“No need to apologize. I’m going to move to your back now. Eyes forward.” Making sure he kept a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, John maneuvered so that he was crouched behind Sherlock. Both his hands traced their way down his back in mirrored paths, his fingertips lingering at the waistband of Sherlock’s pants. His left hand traced midway up and landed on another freckle.  
“Eight.” He pressed a firm kiss to this freckle.  
“Eight, thank you,” Sherlock was getting slower in his responses.  
“Nine.”  
“Nine… thank you.” Sherlock’s thighs had started to shake with the strain of holding up his body weight.   
“You’re doing so well. Ten.” This one was followed by what would be considered more of a lick than a kiss.  
“Ten, thank you.”  
“I want you to get up on the bed now so that I can have better access to your legs. Keep your hands behind your back.”   
Sherlock rose shakily to his feet, John rising in time with him to guide and steady him. One knee on the bed, then the other, and Sherlock fell onto his side before rolling onto his back, effectively trapping his hands underneath him.   
“Good boy.” John positioned Sherlock’s legs so they were spread, knees slightly bent, and settled himself between them. Starting at the ankles John worked his way up to Sherlock’s knees, pressing kisses every few inches. He then went back to Sherlock’s left ankle.   
“Eleven.”  
“Eleven, thank you.” Lips lingered on the freckle. Lifting the leg up, John reached a freckle on the back of the leg.  
“Twelve,” he breathed against it.  
“Twelve, thank you,” Sherlock breathed back.  
John moved to Sherlock’s right leg, where one singular freckle nestled at the back of his knee.   
“Thirteen,” he said, nuzzling the ticklish spot.  
“Thirteen,” Sherlock half-giggled, half-sighed.  
“Thirteen, what?” John growled, nipping gently at the spot.  
“Thirteen, thank you!” Sherlock barely managed to not jump.  
“Good.” John nibbled his way to the freckle on the right leg that rested on the edge of Sherlock’s pants.   
“Fourteen.”  
“Fourteen, thank you.” The words were practically unintelligible.   
“And fifteen,” John said finally, raising Sherlock’s left leg as far as it would go and licking the freckle that was snuggled in the divot between thigh and buttock.  
“Fifteen, thank you,” Sherlock breathed, all the tension flowing out of his body along with the breath. John knew there were freckles he had missed, but wasn’t worried about it.  
“You are such a good boy, Sherlock, I’m proud of you. I think we’ve gotten where we need to, so I want you to stay in this feeling. Float, and I’ll be here to keep you safe.” John repositioned himself so that he was laying lengthwise alongside Sherlock. He ran his fingertips up and down Sherlock’s bicep, the rest of his arm still trapped under his body. “My beautiful, gorgeous boy. You are so good.” His hands moved soothingly along with his gentle voice, flowing and ebbing and lulling Sherlock. “Go to sleep, Sherlock. I’ll be here to guard you and to greet you when you wake up.”  
Sherlock drifted aimlessly, his mind finally quiet. He was a raft in a calm stream, buffeted gently by the soothing voice and slowly sinking into the black.

Sherlock awoke half an hour later, completely at ease. A blanket was wrapped around him, securing him in a cocoon.  
“How are you feeling, love?” John asked gently, hands still roaming aimlessly over Sherlock’s body.  
“Better, thank you. May I move now?”  
“Of course, we’re all done now. You did so well. Come, let’s sit up.” An arm snaked around Sherlock’s back and supported him as he maneuvered into a sitting position, unclasping his hands and hissing at the pinch as he pulled them apart. “Give me you arms.” Sherlock held them out for John, who briskly rubbed his hands up and down the length, getting blood flowing back into them. He then took Sherlock’s hands and held them between his own, rubbing them and blowing on them. He brought them to his lips and kissed every finger. Drawing Sherlock closer by his clasped hands, John drew Sherlock’s mouth to his, kissing him. He let go of Sherlock’s hands in order to cup his face, deepening the kiss. When they broke apart for air, John drew Sherlock’s head to his shoulder, holding him close for a moment.  
“Are we ready to move yet? No rush.” Sherlock burrowed his head in the crook of John’s neck, groaning and wrapping his arms around John and squeezing.  
“Yes, I suppose so. Well, maybe another five minutes?”  
John chuckled. “Yes, of course.” He reclined once more, Sherlock wrapped snugly in his arms. They snuggled lazily for another five minutes, John petting Sherlock’s hair and whispering reassurances in his ear.   
“Alright, let’s go.” John helped Sherlock off the bed. Grabbing a pair of pajama pants and a dressing gown off of an adjacent chair, John helped Sherlock into them before helping him off the bed. “What would you like to eat?”   
“Not hungry,” Sherlock mumbled around a yawn.  
“So toast then?” They had reached the stairs and Sherlock was slowly climbing down them, one step at a time. John cheekily reached forward and squeezed Sherlock’s bum.  
Sherlock squeaked. “Yes, John.” John reached forward and laced his fingers with Sherlock’s, squeezing his hand.   
Although Sherlock was the one who often instigated these episodes, John needed them just as much.


End file.
